The only thing I liked about this incomprehensibly venerated comic novel, which I slogged through only to the midpoint, was the dedication, an all time classic:
To my guardian angel.
(And a not insignificant publishing house adopts this title as its name? I'm going to need to have someone explain that to me.)
You wanta laugh aloud over a novel, try Bukowski's (scabrous) Factotum, or Waugh's (more refined) Scoop or Sorrentino's (tragicomic) Red the Fiend or Th. Berhard's (insane!) Old Masters.
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